“It’s this way,” a peculiarly gruff voice broke in—Tommy was speaking—“Dave always writes a history of our trips. He has about two thousand, one hundred and ninety-seven pages finished up to date. So, of course, this New York trip——”
“Say, fellows!” Jack Lyons jumped up and began pacing the floor. An idea which made his eyes sparkle brightly had suddenly entered his head. “Say, why don’t you chaps stay here a couple of weeks?”
“Eh?” said Tommy.
“And then your historian would have something worth while to scribble about.”
“How?” asked Dave.
“Well, honest, I can’t keep still about it a minute longer.” Jack Lyons’ voice indicated a spirit fairly bubbling over with enthusiasm. “Why, we’ve got hold of a house-boat—a real h-o-u-s-e-b-o-a-t, mind you; and——”
“Intend to take a trip somewhere?” asked Tommy, eagerly.
“Do we?—Well, I should rather say so! It’s all arranged, too. Rah—rah! The ‘Gray Gull,’ Jack Lyons, master, is bound from New York to Albany. Now”—Jack paused; his arm swept around in a half-circle—“you chaps ought to, and, by ginger, must go along.”
“I felt it coming,” sighed Dave. “That means another book to write.”
“How about it?” queried Jack, eagerly. “Don’t say no. It’ll be one of the greatest trips you ever had. Joe, Aleck and Fred are dandy chaps. Say, can’t you go out with me this morning to see our house-boat?”